


Straightfowardly, without complexities or pride

by noelia_g



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: D/s, M/M, Modern AU, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-31
Updated: 2013-08-31
Packaged: 2017-12-25 05:23:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/949107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Grantaire goes out of the country for a few weeks, Enjolras doesn't take it all that well (Grantaire's attempts at sexting and the fact that he's wearing a suit when they're on Skype don't actually help, to be honest). </p>
<p>And then he's back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Straightfowardly, without complexities or pride

Enjolras is staring at the screen and trying to concentrate on the final paragraph, re-reading the words for maybe the twelfth time; they make less sense with every repeat. He considers giving up and turning in when he hears the key turn in the lock and rubs at his eyes, turning around to ask Combeferre if he forgot something.

But instead of his friend it’s Grantaire in the hallway, dropping the keys into the bowl and the suitcase to the floor, shedding his coat and humming, filling the too-empty apartment with noise and movement. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Enjolras asks, his throat suddenly dry. He flinches at his own phrasing, because that could have gone better, but Grantaire just grins at him.

“Wanted to surprise you.”

Enjolras narrows his eyes at him. “You’ve shown me a copy of your ticket.”

“I can pull off a multi-media art installation, I think I can manage a bit of photoshop,” he shrugs and stalks over to Enjolras’ desk, leaning against it. “I saved you an airport trip, you hate airports.”

He does, true enough. And so he doesn’t quite know how to explain he’s been actually looking forward to it this time, to buying a newspaper and folding himself into an uncomfortable plastic chair and not reading a single column and just scanning the crowd for the familiar face.

“I’ve had plans,” he says instead and Grantaire gives him a look.

“Anything better than not going to the airport at the crack of dawn tomorrow and instead spending the whole morning with me in bed?”

There’s a choice between lying and telling the truth, and it’s also the choice between Grantaire laughing at him and Grantaire maybe feeling guilty at actually ruining Enjolras’ plans. 

So, there’s really no choice at all.

“They might have been,” he says darkly and Grantaire grins down at him, teasing but soft around the edges. Somewhere in the meantime he made his way to stand between Enjolras’ legs and their fingers are laced together. Enjolras looks down at them and it finally connects; Grantaire is _home_. “You are not allowed to go away again,” he says fiercely.

They both know he doesn’t mean it, except in the ways he does. He’s already promised Grantaire that next time something like that comes up (and he’s certain it will, he knows Grantaire’s already got a few invitations), he’s going with.

(“You’d be bored out of your mind,” Grantaire told him over Skype, leaning in close to the camera, his face a little fuzzy in the darkened hotel room. 

“Trust me, I am perfectly able of occupying myself while you’re busy.”

“No overthrowing governments, Enjolras, I’m serious,” Grantaire muttered, but his tone was fond and he was already smiling.)

“I missed you too,” Grantaire says now. Enjolras thinks the texts and the e-mails and the Skype conversations were enough of an indication and yet Grantaire doesn’t know the half of how ridiculously lost Enjolras was without him (Combeferre knows, and thank god probably isn’t telling. Courfeyrac might be less charitable, but he doesn’t know the worst parts, so there’s that.)

“Come here,” he mutters, pulling him closer and Grantaire obligingly stumbles forward, placing his hands on the sides of Enjolras’ face and moving into a slow, drawn out kiss. His lips are dry, chapped, but the kiss is no lesser for it; his fingertips buried in Enjolras’ hair, tilting his head up to get a better angle. 

“What were you saying about going to bed?” Grantaire asks against his lips and dips his head to mouth at his jaw.

“I think that was you,” Enjolras points out, as he is clearly expected to.

Grantaire nods thoughtfully. “So it was. I do have the best ideas," he muses and Enjolras runs his fingers over his wrists and tilts his head up to steal a brief kiss before he looks at Grantaire's face closely, catalogues the dark circles under his eyes and the weary lines around his mouth.

"Did you get any sleep on the plane? You should rest, I can..."

"If you think I want to _sleep_ now that I finally have you close enough to touch, you have another think coming," Grantaire informs him. "And if the fact that for once in your life you actually responded to sexting is any indication, you are going to be on board with this."

And again, he's definitely not wrong. It's been a long month and at the end of the first week Grantaire started to take out his frustration (at the distance, at idiots who couldn't manage to put up his installation right, at the fact that he needed to wear a suit almost every day, at _the fucking distance and the ocean between them_ ) by sending increasingly dirty messages at the most inconvenient moments. He probably hadn't actually timed them so that they'd reach Enjolras at a meeting or during a briefing, but he was really lucky in that regard. 

And that was even before the Skype session when Grantaire was getting ready for the opening at the gallery and chatting while he put on his suit. Enjolras never even made it to his lunchtime meeting; he did make it only as far as the shower. 

So yes, he's going to allow himself to be dragged to the bedroom now, because it's been a hellish couple of weeks and because Grantaire is _home_ now, and he may look tired, but his smile is soft and fond and his skin is warm and flushed and his gaze is turning hot, purposeful. 

"In fact..." Grantaire says and takes a step back, to Enjolras huff of protest, but he doesn't move far, just to rummage through his laptop bag, taking out something he then pushes into Enjolras' hands. 

"I've been looking for this," Enjolras says absently, turning the collar in his hands and running he fingers over the worn leather. "I thought maybe we left it at your place. You took it with you?" He asks needlessly but Grantaire nods and shrugs.

"Never pass up a chance to fuck with the TSA agents," he says lightly and then takes Enjolras' free hand again. "I wanted it as a reminder..." he starts and doesn't finish. He doesn't have to, it's for the same reason Enjolras looked for it while he was gone; it's a tangible proof of a promise they don't really need a reminder of, but it still feels nice to hold. 

Grantaire chooses to interpret the prolonged silence as Enjolras' hesitance and taps at his jaw gently, making him look up. "I've thought about it for weeks, needed it for weeks. And you need it too," he adds, looking down at Enjolras' fingers wrapped around his wrist possessively. 

Enjolras breathes out and raises Grantaire's hand to his lips, kissing his palm. Grantaire closes his eyes, fingers twitching when he shivers. 

"On your knees," Enjolras tells him and is obeyed instantly, Grantaire folding gracefully, taking his spot in between Enjolras' legs. His expression smoothes down into a familiar look of calm, his features softening, some of his weariness melting away. Enjolras smiles down at him, feeling a degree of wonder he doesn’t think will ever leave him, and cards his fingers through Grantaire’s hair, scratches lightly behind his ear and runs his thumb over his cheek. 

Grantaire’s breath stutters, his eyes widening. There’s the click in his expression that happens in moments like this; when he goes to his knees, when he obeys the first order, when he offers his wrists to be bound, when he puts on the collar - something settles in him, a calming shiver passes through him, his expression becoming open and trusting in a way it almost never could be otherwise.

Enjolras knows he’s rarely gentle, but in this moments there is no other choice but to be; the very thought of betraying Grantaire’s trust, of hurting him, is abhorrent. 

“So lovely,” he says and Grantaire turns his face into Enjolras’ palm, nuzzling into it. “Do you know how much I missed you?” he asks softly and Grantaire grins with understanding and nods.

“I know, I’m not leaving ever again,” he says and Enjolras shakes his head, because he might have joked about this, but that’s not a lesson he wants Grantaire to take from this.

“No, you should and you will. They’ve asked you already didn’t they?” he mutters, running his fingers up and down Grantaire’s jaw.

“Eponine is a dirty rat.”

“She’s proud of you, and with a very good reason. I’m proud of you,” he adds, tapping his fingers on Grantaire’s chin to make him look up. Grantaire is slow to meet his gaze; he’ll accept the words often enough, in the right context, he’s still reluctant to believe them outside of a scene. Enjolras supposes he’ll simply need to repeat them as often as possible.

“You’re biased,” Grantaire points out flatly and Enjolras nods at him.

“Of course,” he admits freely, making a quick work of the top buttons of Grantaire’s shirt, pressing his knuckles against the pulsepoint, feeling the rush against his skin before dragging his hand over Grantaire’s collarbone, over the edges of dark ink. “Of course I’m biased when it comes to you, and you more than deserve me to be.”

He takes the collar and puts it around Grantaire’s neck, fastening it tightly but not too much. The leather is worn out in places and the metal easily slides into place. Grantaire breathes in and out slowly, eyes fluttering shut. 

“Nothing hard today,” Enjolras orders and promises at the same time. “I’m going to tie you up and then I’m going to make you come. A few times, for a good measure, I think we could both use a reminder who you belong to.”

Grantaire groans and inches into his touch. “ _Nothing_ hard, you said?” he whines and Enjolras tries to look down sternly but he can feel his mouth twitching. 

“Tell me,” he starts and Grantaire doesn’t even let him finish.

“All green, Enjolras,” he says impatiently, his breath warm against Enjolras’ palm, “come on, wreck me.”

Well, when he puts it like that… 

“Go wait for me in the bedroom. Don’t touch yourself and don’t undress yet, I want to do that myself,” he says and Grantaire hesitates briefly, uncertain if he should raise to his feet or crawl there. And while Enjolras appreciates the latter, this could speed things up more than he’d like right now. 

He grasps Grantaire’s wrists and pulls him up, rising to his feet with him. They’re close enough that he can easily drop a brief kiss on Grantaire’s forehead before pushing him away lightly, sending him on his way.

Enjolras doesn’t waste time and makes his way to the suitcase Grantaire discarded in the hallway. He’s been thinking about this ever since he saw Grantaire in that suit, and while he could certainly use his own ties, he prefers Grantaire’s.

Well, one of those he finds in the suitcase is actually his, a red silk tie Grantaire must have stolen a while ago, probably before he caved in and bought some ties of his own. He’s spent most of his trip in a “monkey suit” - his words, but Enjolras agrees with the principle, even if he wasn’t quite sympathetic in this particular case. For one, because Grantaire usually made fun of Enjolras’ hatred of buttoned up shirts and tie knots, and for another, because Grantaire looked downright criminal in a suit.

It’s the incongruity, the impossibility of Grantaire that has always been one of the biggest draws; he’s the man who espouses cynicism and yet whose force of faith floors and humbles Enjolras. He says he brings nothing but mockery and nuisance and then proceeds to destroy Enjolras’ arguments with skill and ease and eloquence that is terrifying and boundless. He wears ancient t-shirts and his fingers are forever splattered with paint and then he turns up and gives James Bond a run for his money. 

And he does that wearing Enjolras’ tie around his neck and carrying his collar in his pocket; that’s food for thought that is both heady and humbling. It’s not a one-sided need; Enjolras has bogarted his share of Grantaire’s hoodies and t-shirts and his favourite pair of winter gloves started their lives as Grantaire’s. 

They mark each other all over too; Enjolras thrills when Grantaire pulls up his sleeves and reveals the pattern left by the cuffs and he learned to ignore Courfeyrac’s wolf whistles when he shows up with hickeys all over his neck (his pale skin bruises much more easily than Grantaire’s, but it’s fine, he can work on the marks harder). He’s had a trail of marks left on his chest that slowly faded while Grantaire was away, and Enjolras kept pressing his fingers over the spots even when they were gone.

Enjolras knows how easily you can twist and bend words and Grantaire never believes them to begin with, but the marks, the physical trappings, they provide comfort. There’s a small box in Enjolras’ nightstand drawer that holds the ultimate sign of this, but he’s not thinking about it now. He runs his fingers over the smooth silk of the tie and makes his way to the bedroom instead.

Grantaire’s kneeling on the bed, legs slightly spread, hands at his sides. He looks relaxed until you look at his hands, clenching into fists before he forces himself to uncurl his fingers. Enjolras sits on the side of the bed and reaches for his hands, kissing the knuckles. 

He hums to himself, considering his options, eyes raking over Grantaire who ducks his head and flushes under his gaze. Enjolras is truly spoilt for choice here. He starts with his hand on the back of Grantaire’s neck, fingers curling possessively over the collar, and Grantaire responds with a moan and with his hips bucking. 

It makes a choice for Enjolras and he hums agreeably and palms Grantaire’s cock; he’s almost unbelievably hard, must have been since Enjolras made him kneel. 

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he tells Grantaire, moving his hand in a slow caress, a teasing touch that’s only just there. “I’m going to take the edge off, jerk you off nice and slow now,” he says and pauses, waiting for Grantaire’s acknowledgement.

“Thank you,” he whispers and visibly holds himself back from pushing into Enjolras’ hand, knowing that’s not all.

“You’re going to tell me when you need to come and you’re going to ask for permission before you do. But don’t ask until you absolutely can’t help yourself, until you know you _have to_ come. Don’t ask too soon, I want you to try and last as long as you can. Do you understand?”

Grantaire shivers under his hand and nods twice before he licks his lips and manages to force out a hoarse “yes, I understand.”

“Good boy,” Enjolras says and moves to kneel in front of him, swiftly undoing Grantaire’s pants and taking out his cock. It’s hard, glistening with precome, and so lovely it makes Enjolras’ mouth water, but there’ll be time for that too. Now he strokes once, slowly, and then pauses, moving his hand to touch at Grantaire’s chin. “There’s no failure in this, R, and there’s no punishment if you come without permission or if it’s fast. But I know you’ll be perfectly good because you want to please me, don’t you?”

Grantaire nods eagerly and shifts in his place; hands clasped behind his back instinctively, head bowed as he waits. Enjolras moves in and presses on the back of Grantaire’s neck, encouraging him to get even closer. Grantaire buries his face in Enjolras’ neck and sighs, both in relief and steadying himself.

“Perfect,” Enjolras tells him, whispered into his hair, and starts stroking his cock, slowly, alternating with flicking his thumb over the tip. He knows the right rhythm by heart, knows when to grip tightly and when to be agonizingly gentle, and beyond using every trick. “I’ve been thinking about this for weeks,” he says, his lips moving against the shell of Grantaire’s ear. “Your texts were driving me insane; I could see you on Skype and I couldn’t touch you. I would stroke myself off like this, touch myself like I’m touching you now, and all I could think of was what I would do once you got home.”

“Enjolras.” He sounds broken, but not nearly desperate enough. Enjolras bites down on his earlobe and then moves on to kissing his neck, taking his hand away from Grantaire’s dick for a moment and devoting some attention to his balls. It makes him first groan in protest and then keen and shudder, which means they’re getting somewhere.

“I’ve made lists. In my head, mostly, but I could write them down for you; lists of things I wanted, needed to do when you get back. And the obvious was to kiss you senseless and then to fuck you so hard you’ll feel it for days, feel _me_ for days. And I wanted your lips wrapped around my cock, and wanted you on your knees and in my lap and in my bed. But more than anything else I wanted the obvious: to touch you.”

“Enjolras, please,” Grantaire says, but it’s not the full request yet.

“I could see you, often enough, I’d hear your voice and I had your words, but do you know, do you have any idea how I missed this? You flushed against me, your skin, the warmth of your breath…”

“Fuck you, yes, god,” Grantaire mutters. He’s shaking with effort and Enjolras wants to tell him it’s okay, he can give in now, he’s done well, but he also wants Grantaire to ask for it, to let himself ask. 

“I thought about asking you not to get yourself off for days before coming home, so you’ll be as desperate for my hand as I was for your touch,” he confesses and Grantaire lets out a strangled moan, cut off when he bites his lip.

“May I come?” he asks, voice shaking, rough as if he’s been screaming and not just panting into Enjolras’ neck. “Please, Sir, may I come?” Enjolras doesn’t chide him for the slip into using the title even though he hadn’t asked for it; it’s a sure sign of how far gone Grantaire is and that’s to be praised and not criticised. 

“Of course, come for me,” he says gently and his words hadn’t yet sounded out before Grantaire is stumbling forward, shuddering as he finds release, spilling all over Enjolras’ hand. “Good boy, such a good boy for me,” Enjolras praises him and covers Grantaire’s mouth with his, the kiss sloppy and lazy as Grantaire is still dazed and whimpering, especially when Enjolras strokes his sensitive dick again. 

“Yes, don’t,” Grantaire says and looks frustrated both with himself and with Enjolras, still shivering against him. “You’re positively evil, I don’t know why I love you.”

“Because,” Enjolras explains and kisses him again.

Grantaire moans softly and nods his head when he pulls back. “Point. Thank you,” he adds earnestly.

“We’re just getting started,” Enjolras tells him and brings his hand to Grantaire’s lips. Grantaire parts them obligingly and licks his come off, sucking on the tips of Enjolras’ fingers. He’s quick, eager, like he either enjoys tasting himself or like he want to get to Enjolras’ taste faster - both possibilities are just about perfect. When Enjolras kisses him again Grantaire moans into his mouth and it’s impossible not to echo him.

He reluctantly draws back; he has plans and needs to make good on them. First, he pulls his shirt over his head and uses it to mop up the rest of Grantaire’s come before discarding it to the floor. Grantaire laughs and raises his eyebrow at Enjolras, who shrugs. It’s true, he’s usually the one to fold the clothes uselessly and stockpile on towels but he also has priorities and he’s pretty sure they’re the right ones.

“This is what I missed most,” Grantaire offers quietly when they pull back from another kiss, after he sways forward chasing Enjolras’ lips instinctively. “Kissing you. It’s an art, Enjolras, and with each art, it is best when talent is helped by practice, and while you surely have the talent in spades, I am honoured to have helped you hone it. Most people would praise your oral skills when it comes to your speeches, and while I admire them, I think it’s best when your mouth is otherwise engaged.”

Enjolras has started grinning in the middle of the spiel and can’t stop now, even as he shakes his head at him. “I’m clearly doing something wrong, if you are both so coherent and so effusive.”

Grantaire shrugs, the “whatcha gonna do” of it clearly evident, and there’s no choice but to kiss him again, which might have been the plan all along. Enjolras keeps it soft this time, however, using the moment to guide Grantaire to lie down on his back, half propped up against the pillows.

“Step two, I gather?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras taps two fingers against the collar, effectively silencing him. 

“Hands over your head, hold your wrists together for me,” he says, picking up Grantaire’s tie, the one that used to be his own. Grantaire’s eyes flicker to it in recognition but he doesn’t say anything, just breathes in sharply and obeys. He tilts his head back to watch Enjolras as he moves to secure Grantaire’s hand to the headboard and obediently tests the bonds when Enjolras asks him too. “You’re doing very well keeping quiet, I know it doesn’t come naturally to you,” Enjolras teases and gets an uncharitable look in return, but one that is easily kissed away.

He moves back down Grantaire’s body, running his hands over his chest absently, along the line of the buttons, tugging the shirt out of his pants and sneaking his hand under it, fingertips skidding over the soft plane of his stomach, down the coarse line of hair disappearing into the waistline of his pants. 

“Be a good boy and help me with these,” he says and tugs Grantaire’s pants down and off, tossing them to the side. His boxers are stained and rolled down messily from before and Enjolras tugs at the soft material to pull them up Grantaire’s hips, fixing them over his once more hardening dick. Grantaire makes a sound of protest; he’d clearly like them off as soon as possible, but as it’s been said, this is only step two, there’s no need to rush.

“I’m glad you got that little speech out, because you’re not going to be talking any time soon,” Enjolras tells him. “Make any noise you want, but bite those words back, literally if need may be,” he adds and leans down to bite on Grantaire’s jaw playfully. 

He looks down and surveys his work: the red tie stark against Grantaire’s wrist, against skin and against the black ink; dark green shirt half undone and wrinkled, light gray boxers adorned with darker wet spots. Grantaire looks well-fucked already, his hair a mess and his face flushed, and they’re just getting started.

He’s perfect like this. Grantaire is always the first to argue that he’s too much of a mess, in every sense, to even qualify for adequate, but Grantaire is wrong about many things (though less than Enjolras claims he is) and this is the biggest one. He’s a mess, yes, but one of contradictions and riddles that is amazing, that is surely one of a kind, and Enjolras feels privileged to have found.

Enjolras is sometimes the first in line to find fault, usually the first to vent his frustrations at some of Grantaire’s qualities, but right now he doesn’t even remember how is that possible, how anything about Grantaire could be less than perfect. He knows, rationally, that it’s the space and time of the past few weeks, but the feeling is not quite unfamiliar, it’s always there somewhere, deep in his chest. 

Grantaire shifts against the pillows uncomfortably, pulling at the bindings, uncertain and uncomfortable under Enjolras’ continued gaze, but there’s an answering softness in his expression, something akin to understanding. Something unfurls in Enjolras’ stomach and urges him to move, and the only thing he can do right now is kiss Grantaire, and this time, _this time_ it’s with all the pent-up frustration of over four weeks when he was deprived of this, of Grantaire’s taste and scent and the sounds he makes, surprised and pleased and desperate and happy.

Grantaire, as is his wont, is probably exaggerating on Enjolras’ kissing skills, but Enjolras can easily accept that he missed this; god knows Enjolras has. He’d be willing to spend hours just like this, and he’s not quite sure the time hasn’t stretched into those; everything is hazy around the edges, everything is secondary to _Grantaire_ , including the flow of time. 

But soon enough Grantaire is groaning and arching his back, trying to get closer to Enjolras, and his mouth gets more insistent and he employs his tongue and teeth particularly well. 

Enjolras reaches out half-blindly, without stopping the kiss, and runs his hand down Grantaire’s chest, edging the waistline of his boxers and then brushing his knuckles over Grantaire’s cock, just to check. He’s hard again, about as hard as Enjolras is, but he’s willing to wait, more than willing, because if he waits, he gets to do this.

He pulls away from Grantaire’s lips reluctantly and silences the protest with the tips of his fingers and a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, and then he starts his journey downwards, starting with Grantaire’s jaw and his neck. Grantaire is soft and pliant under his hands and mouth, he tilts his head back obligingly and bares his throat, shivers when Enjolras bites into the soft skin and soothes it with his tongue, blows gently on the marks he leaves and caresses them with his fingertips. 

Enjolras gets to do this, to study once more the tattoos on Grantaire’s shoulders and chest as he slowly flicks the buttons open, exposing Grantaire’s skin step by step. He traces the designs, the ones Grantaire bore before they met and the ones that joined them later. He spends a great deal of time tracing the words he knows by heart with his mouth; it’s always good to learn them again like this. 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire moans, almost incoherent but audible enough and while it goes straight to Enjolras’ dick, it is also against the express orders.

“That’s one,” he warns softly. Grantaire’s gaze is questioning, but he’s always learned quickly and he doesn’t actually ask. Enjolras rewards him with a kiss to his stomach and nods. “Strike three gets you untied.”

As threats go, it shouldn’t be effective. He’s loathe to deprive Grantaire of anything, especially tonight, so the worst punishment he can devise would be ending the scene and simply fucking him. Grantaire is probably aware of this, but he goes still anyway and slowly bites his lip, part for show and part to really keep himself from talking. 

“You’re doing well,” Enjolras tells him. “So beautiful for me,” he adds fondly and watches Grantaire squirm, always uncomfortable with compliments. He’ll accept the praise for what he does, for how he performs the tasks; the acknowledgement of facts that something has been done and even the praise when it has been done well. 

But the comments on his looks, on his intelligence, on his talents and his character, those are still met with doubt and self-directed mockery. Enjolras longs for the day when they are accepted, but he’ll take the silence, however forced on him. 

“Did you wear my tie often?” he muses, glancing up at Grantaire’s bound hands. Grantaire follows his gaze and then looks back at Enjolras, who noses down his stomach and nuzzles against the cotton stretched over his hip. “I saw you in the green one, that one time. I know you despair of cliches of this kind, but it did match your eyes. Well, approximately enough, I suppose,” he adds and delights in the huff of Grantaire’s breath. He realises he’ll be schooled on colours later, and probably on the cliches as well. “I’ve watched you put on that suit and I didn’t even think about taking it off you, not at first. I thought about dressing you up more.”

He kisses down Grantaire’s thigh and slides his hand in between Grantaire’s legs, pushing them open. Grantaire doesn’t need much encouragement to spread them eagerly and let Enjolras settle in between them, hands on his upper thighs, raking his fingernails over the skin gently, for now.

“I’ll want to take you out, preferably soon. I know it’s hypocritical for me to inflict suits on you, but Grantaire, you should have seen yourself. Yes, I know you have,” he rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s pointed look, even though it’s a little too clouded to be a proper glare, “I’m sure you’ve looked into the mirror. But you haven’t seen yourself, I’m quite sure. So, yes, we’ll go out and I’ll be able to show you off, to have everyone know you’re with me. That you’re mine,” he adds and does what he wanted for a while but needed to work up to it; he mouths over Grantaire’s cock, up the whole length, sucking on the head through the cotton. 

Grantaire actually struggles against his bonds for the first time, making a desperate noise back in his throat and bucking his hips. Enjolras is prepared for this, pressing down on his thighs, keeping him firmly in place. 

“Is this why you wore my tie around your neck?” he asks conversationally, lips still moving over Grantaire’s dick. “No one was able to tell, but you knew, you knew who you belong to. You took my collar with you,” he adds in wonderment and can see Grantaire’s knuckles going white where he grasped the tie securing him to the bed. “But I assure you, everyone will be able to tell this time. They’ll know you’re mine and they’ll know that however they might want you, you’ll always belong to me.”

He can feel the exact moment Grantaire tenses, knows his eyes darken not with lust but with doubt now, but Enjolras is not going to allow this. “You can’t argue with me on this, R, I have an excellent taste and I can tell you all the ways in which you’re exquisite.” 

Enjolras waits for a sound of protest, but all he gets in another doubting look, so they’re getting somewhere. “We can start with your cock,” he says conversationally. “I mean, it has quite a competition for your best feature, but it’s the one begging my attention now, so let’s start there. Here,” he adds and hooks his fingers inside Grantaire’s waistline and lowers his boxers, leaving them around his thighs, adding an additional, welcome level of restraint. 

“Of course you’ll choose the one thing that no one else would see, for this fantasy of yours,” Grantaire mutters. It takes him two tries to get all the words right, but he manages. “I mean honestly, Enjolras, of all the things, this one really is just for you. And I know, strike two, but it was worth it, it needed pointing out,” he says defiantly and Enjolras laughs.

“Just for me,” he repeats and nods. “I’ll allow it, that was almost sweet,” he says and then digs his fingernails into Grantaire’s hip pointedly, leaving crescent-shaped indentations. “Not a word more from you, there’s a good boy. Where was I? Ah, right, before I catalogue all your lovely feature; we were talking about your cock. Well, I was,” he says and gives it a gentle stroke.

Grantaire makes a noise that’s almost a word and Enjolras gives him a stern look. “Do you need me to gag you?” he offers and gets a quick shake of Grantaire’s head in response, and can feel Grantaire steeling himself underneath him, determined to obey this time. “So good for me,” he muses and ducks his head to kiss the tip of Grantaire’s cock.

“But I’m pretty sure you’re wrong on your basic point; I have it on a good authority that your dick is pornstar worthy,” he says and barely restrains himself from making air quotes. That one was from Courfeyrac, who sounded suitably impressed. “I can quote other sources, but I’m not sure we have time and space for the footnotes,” it gets a snort out of Grantaire, quickly lost in a groan when Enjolras proceeds to wrap his lips around Grantaire’s dick. It takes him a few moments to work up to taking him whole into his mouth, but Grantaire clearly doesn’t mind the way his lips slide up and down his cock, until Enjolras can swallow him to the hilt. 

He pulls back with a groan and an audible wet sound and Grantaire is panting underneath him already. “This is the best part, how well you fit in my mouth,” Enjolras tells him like he’s imparting a secret. “And this truly belongs to me,” he adds and sets back to his task, back to sucking Grantaire off. He can’t help himself, he has to watch Grantaire’s reactions, and he thinks he wasn’t being effusive enough when he called Grantaire beautiful, because the way he looks now, open and wrecked and fighting for his breath, goes beyond that.

It takes him awhile, after all he came just a few minutes before once already, and Enjolras’ jaw aches, but its worth it to feel Grantaire’s whole body stutter and shiver, as he pleads wordlessly and then keens in protest, urging Enjolras to pull away. He doesn’t, just works him through the orgasm and swallows what he can, licking off the rest from his lips and Grantaire’s cock. 

Enjolras watches him come down and still and try to get his breathing under control. Grantaire makes a frustrated sound at him, inquisitive and pointed, and Enjolras kisses his hipbone. “You can speak,” he allows.

“Let me touch you,” Grantaire says immediately, his voice rough and desperate. “Let me suck you off. Or better yet, fuck me. You haven’t…”

“I haven’t,” Enjolras agrees and crawls back up to lie down next to Grantaire, his arm thrown possessively over his stomach and his lips against Grantaire’s shoulder. “I will. But believe me, I’m doing exactly what I want,” he mutters and buries his face in Grantaire’s hair, in the soft, sweaty mess of it. “I’ll make you a deal,” he says after a moment. “I’ll untie you now and I’ll get you a glass of water, and then I’ll let you rest for a bit. And then I’ll fuck you, however you want.”

Grantaire shifts his head to look at him, his eyes dark. Enjolras glances down to his lips when he speaks, they’re dark red and swollen and _wrecked_. He looks just so impossibly beautiful Enjolras doesn’t know how there could be anyone who wouldn’t love him on sight. 

“However I want?” Grantaire asks and hums thoughtfully. “For the record, you really don’t remember how the whole dominance thing works, do you,” he says softly and Enjolras doesn’t correct him, even though he’s pretty sure he knows exactly how it’s supposed to work. “Fine, you have a deal.”

Enjolras nods and seals it with a kiss before undoing the knots around Grantaire’s wrists. He pulled hard on them and they tightened uncomfortably, but Enjolras is well versed in this and makes a quick work of it. He rubs Grantaire’s wrists, working on getting his circulation back up and running, and then bows his head to kiss the pale skin on the inside of his wrists. It’s one ritual Enjolras wouldn’t deprive himself of, partly because something settles in his chest at the sight of the marks on Grantaire’s skin and he simply can’t help himself, and partly because of the look in Grantaire’s eyes every time he does it, the flicker of tenderness and confusion and love. 

He pads down to the kitchen and fills up a large glass with cold water. He flicks off the light they’ve left on and turns off his laptop, which switched to a sleeping mode already, then gets back to the bedroom. Grantaire made use of the time and discarded the rest of his clothes and now looks at Enjolras expectantly, waving his hand pointedly. Enjolras wants to say he’s apparently not the only one to be confused as to how this works, but he actually doesn’t mind obliging and taking his pants off after he hands Grantaire the water and raises his eyebrow at him until Grantaire drinks it down.

“You’re such a mother hen, Combeferre would be proud,” Grantaire says darkly.

“You know what we’ve said about discussing Combeferre in bed?”

“Say his name three times and he appears,” Grantaire agrees. It’s a joke, and an old one to boot, but it’s eerily true; in the days when Enjolras and Combeferre still rented out an apartment together his friend had the worst luck of always stumbling upon them fucking somewhere. 

Though to be fair, they did tend to do that all over the place.

“So, now that I’m well watered and well rested, what are your plans?” Grantaire asks and Enjolras shakes his head at him.

“You are not rested, scoot over,” he instructs and gets under the cover, nudging Grantaire to crawl under it too. He rolls closer to the centre of the bed and maneuvers them until they’re pressed close enough for his liking, with Grantaire’s head tucked under his chin. 

Grantaire’s dick is soft against his thigh and while Enjolras is still hard, it’s manageable enough, some of the urgency disappeared during his trip to the kitchen, much colder than the bedroom. He’s perfectly content to settle in like this and card his fingers through Grantaire’s hair. 

“Your eyes,” he says and Grantaire startles and shifts, as if to look at him, but Enjolras keeps him in place, tightening his arm around him. “I told you, I have a list, we might as well go through it.”

“Must we?” Grantaire says long-sufferingly. “Can’t we just agree that you indeed think I’m pretty and leave it at that?”

At this, Enjolras does pull away, just a few inches that allow him to study Grantaire’s face, taking in the features that are more familiar to him than his own. 

He’s written speeches, never poetry, but Grantaire’s eyes could tempt him to try, his mouth, the line of his jaw, the shade of his lashes and the curls in his hair, they all could. He doesn’t know how to say it out loud and not sound maudlin, so he settles on this: “I’ve never in my life called you pretty; it doesn’t fit and it doesn’t suffice. You’re a wonder, and you’re beautiful, and you are amazing, that I will tell you.”

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one who thinks so,” Grantaire mutters.

“I don’t believe that, but even so,” Enjolras lets his voice drop to an intimate whisper, lean in to say it against Grantaire’s lips, “and forgive me for being conceited, but isn’t this enough? If I know this, if I hold it as an absolute truth?”

Well, so he hasn't managed not to sound maudlin. But he's not taking it back. 

Silence stretches between them, Grantaire’s mouth moving over unspoken words, before he finds what he wants to say out loud. “It’s more than enough,” he says and lets Enjolras kiss his forehead and his nose, closes his eyes when Enjolras’ mouth moves over his temple and down to his cheek. He smiles, a little broken still, but Enjolras has learned to pick his battles and accept the victories he gets. “I still don’t understand sometimes what you get from this,” he confesses.

“You,” Enjolras says simply and then pulls away and shakes his head before Grantaire can argue again, before his doubts get overwhelming again. They could talk about it for hours, like they have in the past, and arrive at the same impasse again, and Enjolras thinks in this one situation he might be better with showing rather than telling.

He stretches lazily and rolls over to his back, watching Grantaire prop his head on his elbow. “I believe I made you a promise, dealer’s choice,” he says, for the sole purpose of making Grantaire grin. He succeeds. 

“I don’t think that’s how the game goes, but that’s a discussion for another time. Fuck, Enjolras, whatever you want, I just want to feel you inside me” he says, running his hand through his hair. If it’s an attempt to smoothen it down, he fails miserably. If it’s a part of his attempt to steal Enjolras’ breath, well in that case he gets full marks. “On second thought, no. I want to see you,” he says softly and ducks in closer to steal a kiss. 

Enjolras rests his hand on Grantaire’s chest, a little above his heart. “I love you, you know?” he says and then grins slightly to acknowledge the incongruity of what he says next. “Get the lube from the nightstand, there’s a good boy.”

Grantaire lets out a startled laugh and rolls over to kneel up and rummage through the drawer. Enjolras watches him, waiting for the moment when he’ll find it. He freezes when he does, his whole body tensing up and Enjolras moves to kneel behind him, resting his chin on Grantaire’s shoulder. 

“You wanted me to find this,” Grantaire says, not quite a question but not sure either. Enjolras kisses the closest patch of his skin and nods.

“It wasn’t a long term plan, but yes, I’ve figured you might.”

Grantaire flicks open the box to reveal the rings and runs his thumb over one of them. “Your long term plans… shit, you _had_ plans for tomorrow, for picking me up at the airport and…”

“I like this better. Well, provided you say yes,” he says and almost manages to keep his voice level, he _almost_ does, but it breaks on the last word and Grantaire tries to turn around to look at him. Enjolras doesn’t let him, sneaking his arms around his waist and digging his chin into his shoulder. “I’ve realised I don’t even know your views on marriage; you usually conveniently argue whichever point is opposite to mine--”

“Oh, you’ve noticed that, huh?”

“Wasn’t that hard to figure out. But what I mean… a domestic partnership makes sense from the legal standpoint. I’ll understand if you don’t want that. But I thought you might consider wearing my ring.”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says long-sufferingly and catches Enjolras’ fingers from where they’re resting on his stomach, unlaces them slowly and turns to look at him, his hand still clasped around the box. “I wear your collar, this is a pretty good indication of my sentiments in this.”

“It’s not the same,” Enjolras argues.

“Yes. And no,” Grantaire says and his lips twitch when he takes in Enjolras’ look. “What brought this on? It’s a pretty big thing for someone who took months of hinting before giving me a drawer.”

“You’re terrible at hinting and I just wasn’t thinking,” Enjolras mutters. He’s never living this down, he knows it well enough. “You were practically already living here, I thought you’ve found a place to store your stuff, I didn’t think I had to…”

“This isn’t about the drawer, for god’s sake,” Grantaire says, laughing, and catches his hand. He touches his fingertips to Enjolras’ ring finger, making him shiver. “So, I was away for four weeks and you--”

“I bought these before Christmas,” Enjolras confesses. “I just wasn’t sure how to bring this up.”

“‘Will you marry me’ is the preferred method, I’ve heard.”

Enjolras breathes in and spends a few moments studying Grantaire. His expression is calm, collected, but there’s something bright in his eyes that he seems determined to hold at bay. 

He realises he knows the answer, Grantaire has given it to him freely already. It’s Enjolras who has been remiss here, because he is yet to ask the question. 

“I’ve started thinking about it when the state was about to legalise it. Made the pros and cons list,” he smiles wryly and Grantaire nods.

“You did raise the subject uncommonly often, I thought you were writing an article.”

“I was trying to gauge your opinion, you idiot,” Enjolras mutters and realises he probably shouldn’t call Grantaire names while he’s proposing. Oh, well. “But it wasn’t until I was Christmas shopping for that necklace for Eponine that I saw these and realised how much I want this. So, will you? Marry me?” he asks and his chest constricts almost painfully when he sees Grantaire smile, in a way he rarely does; sweetly, joyfully.

“I think I will,” he says and fishes out the rings from the box. “You want me to…” he starts and Enjolras nods eagerly, sneaking his hand into Grantaire’s, grinning down at their hands when Grantaire slides the ring onto his finger and then hands the other to Enjolras to return the favour. “Here, all done,” he says and grins at Enjolras. “I assume we’ll have to go sign papers at some point and I know some people will want to come and witness this shit, but can we fuck now? Because I’ve been promised some fucking and I’d like to collect.”

“Tell me again why do I love you?” Enjolras mutters and Grantaire pulls at his hand so they both stumble down onto the bed.

“I have no idea, but it seems you’re stuck with me,” he says and frowns. “I didn’t get the lube,” he adds, sounding ridiculously put upon. 

“Well, you were distracted,” Enjolras allows and reaches into the drawer. “Lie back, spread your legs for me.” 

Grantaire obeys instantly, not thinking about it, but he also makes a show of swallowing visibly and breathing harshly. “That’s it, that’s the voice; you got your dom groove back.”

Enjolras smiles indulgently and rakes his fingernails down Grantaire’s chest, making him shiver in a way that definitely isn’t pretense. “I’m glad you approve,” he says flatly and settles in between Grantaire’s legs, pushing them apart just that little more. He strokes Grantaire’s cock lazily, and it’s still a little too sensitive, the touch making him groan as he can’t decide whether he wants to flinch away from Enjolras’ hand or push into it.

He looks down consideringly, and leans down, grasping Grantaire’s wrists and pinning them down above Grantaire’s head. He presses their foreheads together and holds still for a moment, enjoying the way their breathing matches, too fast and shallow. 

He brushes his thumbs over Grantaire’s wrists once more before pulling back. “Keep them there,” he instructs and sits back on his heels, admiring the way Grantaire is stretched out for him, muscles taut, arching his back already. Enjolras hums absently as he starts stroking himself, letting himself do this for the first time this night. He can’t do this as hard as he’d like; he doesn’t want this to be over too soon, but he enjoys the way Grantaire’s heavy lidded eyes follow his every stroke, the way he licks his lips and groans hungrily.

“Don’t tease, Enjolras,” he mutters and then breathes out, much more softly, “please.”

The thing is, despite what some people might think, Enjolras actually has a hard time saying no to Grantaire. Once upon a time he might have considered it a problem, but those days are far behind him. As it is, he just looks down at him and says “ask me again, properly.”

Grantaire makes a long, exasperated sound which then turns into slurred, pleading words. “Please fuck me, Sir. I need you inside me. I’ve been good for you,” he adds softly, questioningly, like he’s not quite sure Enjolras is pleased with him enough yet and Enjolras honestly can’t take more of this.

“Yes, you have,” he agrees and runs a teasing finger over Grantaire’s entrance. “You have been perfect,” he mutters, unwilling to move his hand from Grantaire’s skin any sooner than he needs to, so he uses his teeth to uncap the bottle of lube. Grantaire looks like he wants to snort at him, but all it comes out is a little broken huff as Enjolras moves to coat his fingers generously.

“Move for me,” he says and Grantaire obliges, bending his knees before Enjolras touches his ankle and then he raises his leg to rest it on Enjolras’ shoulder. It stopped surprising Enjolras how graceful Grantaire can be, especially in those moments when he’s not trying at all. It stopped surprising Enjolras, after he’s learned about the dancing and the years of kickboxing and the fact that Cosette and Jehan roped him into _yoga_ , but it hasn’t stopped amazing him. 

He starts slow, easing his finger into Grantaire, who makes small impatient sounds at him, biting off the curses he clearly wants to voice. He's so good about it, so eager, wordlessly begging for more, sighing gratefully when Enjolras adds a second finger, and then another. Enjolras almost forgets he's painfully hard by now, that he wanted, needed to be inside Grantaire, because his needs take second seat to making Grantaire come again, to making him moan so wonderfully and arch his back and buck his hips and...

"Please fuck me," Grantaire asks once more, reminding Enjolras of his promise. "I'm close and I need you to--"

Enjolras pushes inside him then, sliding in perfectly, fitting in like he belongs. And he does, that's the point. He takes his fill looking at Grantaire, the mess of dark hair against the white pillow, the labyrinth of tattoos, the sheen of sweat and the flushed skin. The leather of the collar and the silver of the ring on his finger. 

Sometimes Enjolras still finds it impossible to believe how lucky he is. 

"You look incredible. You _are_ incredible," he mutters and Grantaire laughs, his body vibrating around Enjolras' cock and _holy fuck_.

"You say that to a man who's looking up at _you_ , really?"

Next time, Enjolras swears, he’s going to fuck Grantaire in front of a mirror and make him see what Enjolras sees every time. But now he reaches down and touches Grantaire’s face, forcing himself to be gentle even as he fucks into him harder, making Grantaire groan and whine and hide his face in Enjolras palm, his mouth open and wet against his skin. 

“Are you ready to come, R?” he asks and strokes Grantaire’s dick experimentally, making him shudder and bite down on Enjolras’ hand. “I want you to come when I do, can you do that for me?”

“Fuck, yes, hurry up,” he says, words laced around small keening sounds. “Please, Enjolras.”

It’s the way he says Enjolras’ name, a plea and a prayer and a curse, that sends him over the edge. “You can come,” he tells Grantaire and strokes him purposefully, feeling him shudder. “Come for me,” he adds, an order this time, and Grantaire does, closing his eyes and biting his lip, clenching around Enjolras and wrenching desperate sounds from him. They fall apart together and then fall down together, in a pile of limbs and harsh breaths. 

Enjolras moves to find Grantaire’s mouth again, the kiss messy and loose, all tongue and teeth. 

He’s not quite sure how much time passes before Grantaire speaks again, long enough for the air to get colder and for Enjolras to actually consider moving and cleaning them up. Grantaire’s skin is still to inviting, however, and he settles back in to trace lazy circles over his arm. 

“I think you broke my dick,” Grantaire tells him and Enjolras can’t quite tell if it’s meant to be a compliment or a complaint. He’d ask, but he doesn’t trust his voice yet. Instead he slides down Grantaire’s body on a whimsical impulse and kisses his cock in apology. Grantaire attempts to laugh and groan at the same time.

He mutters “I missed you,” into Grantaire’s hip and then pillows his head on Grantaire’s stomach, which might be the only reason why he feels tension coil in Grantaire’s body. “They already invited you somewhere, didn’t they?” he asks softly and Grantaire reaches out to card his hand through Enjolras’ hair. 

“London, next month. There’s this showcase--”

“You’ll go,” Enjolras assures him, then shifts to look up at Grantaire when there’s no answer. It’s unacceptable for Grantaire to look so indecisive, so unsure about this. “Well, unless you don’t want to, or if that showcase isn’t really for you, or if you have someplace better to be, but, _Grantaire_ , not on my behalf.”

“I have it on a good authority you didn’t take it well when I was gone,” Grantaire points out.

“So, I’m a miserable asshole without you, aren’t you?” he asks and sighs against Grantaire’s skin, resting his chin on his stomach to look up at him more comfortably. “You are not contractually obliged to make sure I’m happy at all times.”

“Aren’t I?” Grantaire mutters, but he’s smiling a little at last, the corner of his mouth pulled up and his eyes bright. 

“Alright, I’ll make you a deal,” Enjolras says and Grantaire tugs at his hair.

“Another one? I’m still recovering from the last one.”

“Worked well for you,” Enjolras says matter-of-factly. “Accept the London offer, I’ll go with you. I’m due some time off, to be frank, I’m due a lot of time off. We can stay a week or two longer, make a holiday out of it,” he pauses and catches Grantaire’s hand, their rings clicking together. “Make a honeymoon out of it,” he adds softly and Grantaire’s eyes widen.

“We’re taking a month, Enjolras, you honestly want to marry me that--”

“Yes.”

Grantaire looks down at him in wonder, tugging a strand of Enjolras hair behind his ear gently. “I promised Eponine she’ll get to plan my wedding, if by some miracle I ever get married.”

“Fine.”

“You’re going to hate everything she comes up with.”

He’s probably not wrong. Then again… “If I end up married to you by the end of the night, I’ll be fine,” he says and Grantaire’s expressions go through disbelief and awe to settle on a sweet smile before he’s tugging Enjolras up to catch his lips. 

“Yes,” Grantaire mutters.

Enjolras nuzzles his jaw. “To what?”

“Everything.”

**Author's Note:**

> I can't properly porn anymore, it's all tangled up in fluff and feelings now. I don't even know with them. 
> 
> Thanks to all of you wonderful folks who comment and leave kudos on my fics. You are all lovely, lovely people and I hope karma pays you back in kittens and chocolate.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr, it's [realitycheckbounced](realitycheckbounced.tumblr.com). It used to be a multifandom blog, but now it's mostly Les Mis and bad puns, so.


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